What's Done In The Dark \\ VISIO, vol. 1 issue. 1

issu e. 1 | volu m e. 1

WHAT'S DONE IN THE DARK f eat u r in g

AN ARTIST PORTRAIT SERIES

by Leigh a St iles

CONTENTS We're all In Transition ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? . pg. 5 A poem by Adriana Green

Cold ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ........pg. 6 A poem by Adriana Green

Mania In Three Parts ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ..... pg. 8 A poem by Alyssa Cooper

Devil In The Details? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ... pg. 15 A poem by Adriana Green

My Ghost Still Haunts the Halls of KGH ? ? ? ..pg. 17 A poem by Alyssa Cooper

Seashell Girl ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? .....pg. 19 A poem by KT Chambers

Gramma Use To Laugh ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? pg. 20 A poem by Alyssa Cooper

Mental Health: In The Dark ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? .pg. 22 An artist's portrait series by Leigha Stiles

Control Issues ....................................................................pg. 27 A poem by Adrana Green

Our Contributors ................................................... pg. 28

VI SI O Edit or In Ch ief Adriana Green

Lit er ar y Edit or Adriana Green

Con t r ibu t or s AlyssaCooper,Kt Chambers,LeighaStiles,AdrianaGreen

Con t act visioliterary@gmail.com

Next Issu e "Idealism and Rust," playing off the quote, "scratch the surface of any cynic, and you will find a disappointed idealist."

Idealism and Rust will be available May 16th.

Coloph on VISIO Magazine is an online literary magazine established with the goal of assisting contributors with publication development and to provide a safe space for literature and and art.

Does the dark conjure feelings of fear, or do you come alive when you know night is near? What happens when the sun disappears to be replaced by the moon? Do you worry that daylight won't ever come soon? What monsters lurk inside your head? To torment you as you lay in bed?

Shadows that display look like snarling teeth, And the noises from the outside come up from beneath to rise up in a fury, the fear that it sparks...

Leaves you wondering , just exactly...

WHAT'S DONE IN THE DARK?

WE'REALLINTRANSITION I qu est ion ed you r m ovem en t s u n t il I began t o m ir r or t h em .

I w on der ed w h at you saw w ay dow n t h er e, ben eat h t h e cr ow ds of people, becau se you n ever look ed u p.

Not t o m e, at least .

You w ou ld st u t t er in you r speech , an d I w on der ed w h y you r lies st ar t ed t o sou n d so good t o m e.

A w ar m w om b t h at I w as k ept in , t h e t r u t h began t o f ade.

It w as m y t r ain I h ad t o cat ch t h at w as pu llin g aw ay.

It w as m y sh ot in t h e dar k I k n ew I sh ou ld t ak e.

WRITTEN BY: ADRIANA GREEN

COLD Cold night, colder basement. Is it the hard looks, the chip in his shoulder, or the window cracked open? Cigarette smoke on a patio, words thrown back and forth.

Casual, yeah, we're just friends, we keep things casual. Distance watched, and distance checked. Any closer to you, and I'd crumble, I would give in. Memories swell in my head, and spill up my throat. I let some of them out, keep others to myself.

In the background we can't hear, but we see happy couples, and he watches me like a hawk, knowing I can't keep my eyes off you. Music throbs inside the room as

WRITTEN BY: ADRIANA GREEN

drinks get passed around, I'm pouring rounds for all my friends but I don't take any for myself. I just change the song hoping to change the mood. This night just doesn't want to end. And I just don't want to lose sight of you.

Become an observer, I'm always at the center. Time to step back and watch, but I can't hear what you said, so I lose my ground and get closer to you. Stuck in your room, but it wasn't my plan. All alone, but it wasn't my intention. I don't blame you for walking away, I guess I should know what it feels like to be distant.

Accused of being hopeless, trying to fill an empty desire, and it stings. Just like the smoke in my eyes.

I shut them tight, I just play it off... I'm not usually like this. Why do you think I compensated for the step you took towards me,by stepping towards the empty space beside me? Hypocrite, that's what you are. Self righteous, that's what you sound like. You say my name like it pains you to do so, but I'll never apologize, not anymore.

Maybe I was hoping for a small sign of affection, no more omissions, just plain and simple intentions. I ran up the stairs too fast, my head would get dizzy.

To find you in the kitchen content with never even knowing if I was there. Well would it come at any surprise if I said I was there for you? My heart still goes out to you, and in the most mutual terms, I'll still be here for you.

Cold night, colder basement. Still, I find warmth in your smile, and comfort in your words.

But you left me crying on a snowy drive home And now I'm torn.

M ANIA IN THREE PARTS WRITTEN BY: ALYSSA COOPER

Par t On e - 2010 Dad com es h om e at 3 p.m . w it h n o sh ir t .

He?s laughing like he?s been drinking rocket fuel, there are lightning bolts cascading between his teeth, he?s laughing because he got into a fight with a boy my age and won, threw his fists like hammers, left his mark on the world like carving through fields with the blade of a hoe, and he?s laughing, because he can?t even remember why. Dad wakes me up at 3 a.m. to ask if I want to go for a ride, and his eyes are on fire.

We pile into the flashy new sports car that he can?t afford, and it smells like a different world inside, synthetic and electric, I am half-asleep and half-afraid, I can smell coals smoldering under his diaphragm, and he turns up the radio as loud as it will go. ?This song,? he says, driving faster than I thought possible, laying rubber on pavement, like we are a paintbrush, leaving pieces of ourselves behind, he says, ?Have you heard this song yet?? He tries to turn it up, as if maybe I?ve gone deaf, as if I am not responding because it?s not loud enough, and he curses when the over-worked speakers won?t comply. ?This fucking song,? he says.

Downtown, he screams to a stop, he is a banshee, he swings his keys around his finger and wears his mania like tattered robes, and I watch from the passenger seat as he hands out gift bags to the homeless. They are full of warm socks and soft pajamas, things he imagines they must be in need of, and he expects nothing in return, because being crazy does not override being kind. He offers a woman covered in scabs a ride to the coffee shop, gives her the money to buy what she needs, and on the way, she tells us about the bugs that live and crawl and squirm just beneath the surface of her skin.

A week later, dad will admit himself to the psych ward, a herculean decision made in a moment of irreversible clarity.

They will keep him three days, dress him in blue pants and paper shoes, monochromatic, they will paint him into a rain cloud, they will not allow him to shave, and he will look like a stranger, with the beard shadowing his face.

They will give him pills in paper cups to help him sleep for the first time in eight days, they will strap his screaming roommate to a chair and leave him there, between the beds, and then they will wonder why the pills aren?t working. I will visit, and we will stare at each other like statues, mouths carved of stone, tongueless, we will stand like monuments, and neither one of us will have words for the things that we feel.

People told me my entire life that I was exactly like him, a xerox copy, a dictated letter, his imperfect little clone, differentiated by a single rogue chromosome.

This was before he went crazy, of course ? but it?s too late to take it back now.

PT. TWO 2012 I?m w ear in g sh or t s f or t h e f ir st t im e in t en year s.

Strangers stare when I walk by, they whisper, voices like wisps of smoke, like whips, kissing at the exposed skin of my thighs, and they see nothing but bones and scars, they see a body without a casket, they see a funeral, the things they want to say are like hornets in their mouths, swelling up their tongues, they call me junkie, call me psycho, they call me crazy, but they don?t know what it means to yearn, they don?t know how it feels to be made up of empty space, an endless vacuum sucking beneath my chest, they don?t know that I am a barren territory begging to be filled, that I am nameless countries with shattered borders, they don?t know what it is to throw yourself into pain, because at least pain is not nothing, and how do you describe the face of god to someone who has lived their entire life in the dark?

you?re reciting scripture or screaming heresy, people don?t listen when your eyes are on fire. They don?t hear the words when you wear sickness on your skin, sadness on your bones, they will beg you to let them save you, as if it could ever be that easy.

I think of my father, held for three days without razors or t-shirts, until the light went out of his eyes, and his skin turned as blue as his paper shoes, held until he turned down the radio, and threw out the gift bags, held until he purged up the rocket fuel brewing in his belly, until he started spending more

My father the casket, my father the gravestone, my father the funeral, and I swear that I will never ask for help. I will wear my bones and my scars, I will let It doesn?t matter what you say, doesn?t them whip me, let them whisper, and I will matter if it?s right or wrong, doesn?t matter if never let them save me.

PART. THREE 2018 I am t en year s you n ger t h an dad w h en I st ar t dr in k in g r ock et f u el, it has always been glaciers before, rampant sadness, juxtaposed against his violent, breath taking joy, and this new flavour, it tastes like ambrosia, it tastes like angel wings, I can?t get enough of it, I am tearing apart heaven with my teeth, chewing it up like strips of meat, I have learned to swallow the sun, and in my belly, it is beautiful like a forest fire.

I could live here forever, I think. I could burn to cinders, and my blackened skeleton would still be dancing through the ashes. I want to give the flames to everything. I want my entire life to burn like I do.

When I tell this to a friend in a moment of irreversible clarity, he asks me if I want to leave my own home in the middle of the night, and I am shocked into action - I am blessed by his understanding, possessed by glorious purpose, I am in love with the way that he doesn?t ask questions, as if the fire burning in my eyes is familiar, as if my manic cloak is a piece of clothing that maybe he?s worn before, as if the casket in my chest is exactly what he was expecting.

I am whisked to the door, I am handed shoes, I am bundled into an unfamiliar car like precious cargo, this boy - he has gone full-on flight mode, full-on knight in shining armour, and for once, I am happy to play the damsel. It feels so good to give in entirely, to smolder and smoke in the passenger seat, to let my heat fill the car, watch it envelope him, let him drive the streets without wondering where we might end up, and see my life fall to wreckage in the rear view.

I didn?t know what I needed until he gave it to me, didn?t know what the fire was demanding, didn?t know what the flames were hungry for, only knew that they were starving, that they were carving me out from the inside, that if I didn?t feed them something soon, they would swallow me whole, instead.

That night, we sleep side by side in a single bed, fully dressed in the sweltering heat, and he doesn?t try to touch me. He doesn?t demand payment, he doesn?t turn my bones into currency, my flaming body is made of flesh, and that flesh is my own, and I have never felt my worth more than I did in that stretched-out series of moments, listening to him breathe in the dark, stoking the fires that burn beneath us.

It?s just that traveling won?t get you very far, you know.

DEVILIN THE DETAILS WRITTENBY: ADRIANAGREEN

You; still wrapped up in that blanket; a comfortable cocoon. Still caught up in dreams.

You; still trembling at the feet of the unknown, And I; longing to know the feeling of a night without a single ounce of doubt.

And them; throwing what they know to see what sticks.

It?s funny isn?t it?

The semantics of a language.

The properties of purpose.

The measure of a man.

All relative, Too palatable, Yet elusive to the touch.

Then the paradigm shifts (warning; this might hurt a bit) And time can be broken and divided amongst all the many ways we try to streamline our guilt and our shame.

We just can?t carry around all of this extra weight.

You, gaining balance from the spinning thoughts.

You, the centre of your own universe.

You, a student that has yet to seek.

But will follow the tug, and will meet yourself everywhere you go.

It?s just that traveling won?t get you very far, you know, If you refuse to take the higher road.

""MAYBEBECAUSE OFMADNESS ORMATTERSOF THEHEART, I FELLINTOA RABBITHOLE RATHERDEEP ANDDARK"" - ADRIANAGREEN

M Y GHOST STILL HAUNTS THE HALLS OF KGH WRITTEN BY: ALYSSA COOPER

It's never dark in the ICU. The ICU is perpetual twilight, monitors like moonlight, my skin is blue, here.

I'm breathing ice while my mother breathes through a tube, I?m stuck awake while she floats dreamless, while her veins are pumping white.

There is a lamb running loose through these hospital halls, bleating and bleeding, I can hear its hooves?bony clatter on scarred tile, I can smell its knotted wool; from the waiting room, I can see its shadow bouncing off the walls.

In the waiting room, darkness is a bridge between two bodies.

The waiting room is velvet sky, metronomes echo like cave walls, here, the waiting room is a womb of cotton. No sound, no feeling, I don?t have time to cut myself in the hospital, and the lamb is waiting just outside the door, watching me, accusing me, the lamb is screaming silent.

Down the hall, angels float on the ceiling, their voices the gasp of the ventilator, and I seek words in the wordless song. This moment makes me understand why humans found language, found words for all the things that were once wordless, trying to make sense of senselessness, trying to make shape of the shapeless, and in the silent nights that follow, I will itch for sound.

These things I remember, the lamb, both newborn and slaughter bound, it was nine years ago and it was yesterday, it is now, it is every time I close my eyes in a twilit room, it is easier to forget than to remember, but remembering is critical, the smell of latex, the endless alarms, the thickened air of waiting and maybes, and my ghost still haunts the halls of KGH. She rattles chains and she drinks from IVs. She remembers the things that I have forgotten ? she knows the words that I left without.

SEASHELLGIRL There once was a girl who stole teeth in exchange for seashells.

In the night, she would place the seashells around her naked body and pray that they?d make her whole.

She liked the seashells the people had to offer. They are shiny and look like they?re made of gold.

By the end of her wandering she had depreciated into such a small creature, she could sneak into windows unseen.

She could roam around brimming streets and enter bars sipping on every last drop of stale beer. Never dealing with the tired, horny men anymore. Eventually, she learned to only steal teeth from the men that dream in graphite, to protect her from their cold hands. She would sell their teeth, go home drunk and empty, and lay down in the darkness with her seashells, chanting to herself, ?I have escaped them all?. The girl is not a dragon, or sky, or hero. Though, she breaths fire, has wings, and tries to save anyone who shows her love.

The girl is tender and messy and leaves a trail of blood wherever she grieves. Her body is strong although small, and it feels dirty when she thinks of the men, the beer, and the teeth, but it feels cleaner when she presses the seashells against her.

She is tired from stealing teeth just so she can feel comfort.

WRITTENBY: KTCHAMBERS

GRAM M A USE TO LAUGH WRITTEN BY: ALYSSA COOPER

Gramma used to laugh when she told me about her boss sliding his hand up her skirt, even though she told him not to ? Gramma was a secretary, Gramma was a single mom, Gramma learned to type seventy words per minute, and how many woman have said no with a laugh to save themselves?

How many men have heard the laugh and ignored the no, when I said no he gave one thrust and then threw me away, disgusted, and I am lucky for his disgust, lucky that it only took him a minute to listen, maybe ? is that what luck is?

Is luck my grandmother, perched on a desk with a hand up her skirt, is luck me at twelve years old while he watched me changed, even though I asked him not to?

It ached afterward, inside and out, ?let?s just see if it fits,? bargaining like you bargain with a child because he knew that I was a child, and years later Gramma?s hip snapped, and I wonder if it was the weight of carrying his hand on her thigh that finally broke it, I wonder if it was the weight of his hand on her thigh that carried me into his lap, trying to keep distance between our hips, when I think of him pulling me closer, I think of Boss Man pulling Gramma closer when she was young like me, single mom who couldn?t afford to pull away, when the hairs stand at attention on the backs of my arms, I can feel Boss Man?s hand on my thighs, and I laugh like Gramma.

I say no like Gramma. I say no like me.

I say no, and no one hears me.

M ENTAL HEALTH A PORTRAIT SERIES

ARTIST'S STATEM ENT ?M en t al h ealt h w as alw ays som et h in g I n ever w or r ied abou t , I n ever saw h ow im por t an t it w as u n t il it w as t oo lat e. Af t er goin g t h r ou gh an episode of psych osis last in g alm ost a w eek , I w as h ospit alized f or t h r ee w eek s. It w as an in t en se r ecover y w it h a lot of h elp f r om doct or s, n u r ses, an d m y loved on es. M y w or k r epr esen t s m y m en t al h ealt h jou r n ey t h r ou gh ou t t h is per iod of t im e in m y lif e.

Wit h in m y body of w or k t h er e ar e dif f er en t elem en t s t h at r elat e back t o m ood disor der s. I t ook t h e m ain st ages of a m an ic-depr essive episode an d sh ow ed it t h r ou gh m y expr essive por t r ait s. Each por t r ait u ses colou r an d expr ession t o r epr esen t t h e dif f er en t m ood I w an t ed t o por t r ay. By u sin g m yself as t h e su bject , it allow s f or a m or e per son al an d in t im at e r epr esen t at ion of m y exper ien ce.

M en t al h ealt h is n ow a h u ge aspect in m y lif e, I w an t ed t o sh ow w it h in m y body of w or k w h at can r esu lt in n ot car in g f or you r m en t al h ealt h . By u sin g colou r f u l self por t r ait s t o r epr esen t all dif f er en t aspect s of m en t al h ealt h disor der s m y body of w or k w as cr eat ed.?

-Leigh a St iles

Sor r ow Oil on w ood pan el 16" x 20" 2019

M an ic Oil on w ood pan el 16" x 20" 2019

Debilit at ed Oil on w ood pan el 16" x 20" 2019

M ediocr e Oil on w ood pan el 16" x 20" 2019

WRITTENBY: ADRIANAGREEN

CONTROLISSUES

It was scary to think about what might happen when the lights go out.

I liked to stay on my left side, because on my left side I can make myself believe that, me, little old me, can make the dysfunction come to an end.

Some listless sense of control that I claimed, and it made me tough for my age, but not tough enough.

The furnace would rumble, roaring and moaning, the sound would rush into my room, and I felt safe.

Safer than if I was to go and ask the big guy to turn the T.V down, because God forbid I ever set any boundaries, because a child is a child is a child, and I was sent to my room.

And I can still recite every single show he watched because I could never fucking sleep, but at least I had the sounds rising up from beneath.

But I can't blame him.

I can't turn this into any sort of lamentation.

Because I knew that he was just kind of fucking tired of being a Father.

Man, was it ever palpable.

But I'm not alone in this.

He left a trail of his own kind in cities he escaped from, and he never looked back, and fuck, I don't blame him.

Because I wouldn't' want it either, and man, do I ever get it. and man, do I ever want to not get it.

And you can say you will escape the cycle, and you can try with all your might, but you'll find yourself yelling in your father 's voice one dark and fateful night.

And you'll be waiting for the muscle memory, listening for that fiery underbelly, that sound that use to turn the violence into honey...

But he's asleep in the ground now.

And darling, you can get some sleep now.

OUR CONTRIBUTORS If you would like to become a contributor visit www.visiomag.squaresapce.com, or email visioliterary@gmail.com.

ALYSSA COOPER IG @AlyssaWritesPoems SITE www.AlyssaCooper.com FB www.Facebook.com/AlyssaCooperLit

KT CHAM BERS IG

@KTchambers_Art

ADRIANA GREEN IG @DefinitelyAdriana SITE www.VisioMag.squarespace.com

FB

www.Facebook.com/VisioMag

LEIGHA STILES IG @ArtByStiles Site www.StyleByStiles.com FB www.Facebook.com/StyleByStiles PHOTOGRAPHY FROM UPSPLASH

Mak (pg. 4)

Chmyphotography (pg. 14)

Peter Bucks (pg. 7)

Toa Heftiba (pg. 19)

Paul Volkmer (pg. 8)

Elvin Ruiz (pg. 12)

Sebastian Leon Prado (pg. 10)

Milada Vigerova (pg. 20)

Viktor Talashuk (pg. 30)

Adrian (pg. 18)

Upcom in g issu e...

Available M ay 16t h , 2020

IDEALISM & RUST

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